


Hard to Get

by Gigi_Sinclair



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Hundred Guineas Club, M/M, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2020-07-28 21:36:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20070976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gigi_Sinclair/pseuds/Gigi_Sinclair
Summary: At the Hundred Guineas Club, Aziraphale attracts the attention of a man with a lot of money and a fair amount of baggage. Crowley's not so keen on that.





	Hard to Get

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt at the Good Omens Kink Meme. It kind of strayed from the initial request, but it's close enough that I'm still posting it here.
> 
> I was heartbroken to learn that the 19th century gavotte we see Aziraphale dancing is not the same as the 16th-18th century gavotte, aka kissing dance. But we soldier on. 
> 
> Includes situational use of female names and pronouns for cisgender males.

The moment Alexander steps in to the club, his eyes alight on the most beautiful man he has ever seen.

He's blond, with a sweet-looking face and a luscious body. He's just finished a gavotte, so he is charmingly breathless, a sheen of sweat glistening on his skin. Alexander can easily picture himself licking it off, while this gorgeous man squirms and giggles beneath him. Alexander turns to the fellow beside him, an old school chum called Teddy who recently came back into Alexander's life, and who so kindly introduced him to the Hundred Guineas Club. Teddy is known as Edith or Edna or something here, in their typical twee style. Alexander, under duress, adopted Elizabeth as his _nom de guerre._ “I say, who's that?”

Teddy follows his gaze. “Oh, that's Mary.” Mary sits down. At once, a coterie of men buzz about him, like honeybees around a flower. One presses a drink into his hand. Another brings him a plate of dessert. Mary smiles at them all, beaming like a beatific sun. “But you won't stand a chance there. 'The Virgin Mary' we call her. Behind her back,” he adds. 

“He--She's a tease?” Alexander doesn't mind that. A bit of a chase is amusing. Makes it all the sweeter when they let him catch them in the end.

They _always_ let him catch them in the end. 

“No,” Teddy says. “Just oblivious. She doesn't even go in for the rent boys.” 

Alexander doesn't, either. There's no sport in a man who can't say no. 

Everyone else, however, is fair game, and once Alexander sets his sights on a prize, he never fails to get it. He's won them all: aristocrats, servants, soldiers, shopkeepers. Ministers, of both the cabinet and the pulpit variety. Englishmen and foreigners. A good many men who never thought themselves that way inclined until Alexander showed them just what they were missing. 

Teddy runs a hand through his hair. Alexander remembers the habit from their school days. “Um, Elizabeth, I know you and I haven't really seen one another in a terribly long time, but there's something I want to...”

“Thank you for your help,” Alexander says, and crosses the floor to Mary. 

Here in the club, all men are supposed to be on level footing, their shared vice acting as an equalizer. That said, outside these walls Alexander is still Alexander Garvey, son and heir to the Duke of Colchester. He's the highest placed man in attendance at the moment—although not the highest placed on the club's membership rolls—and the others give him his due respect, backing up a little as he approaches Mary. 

“Excuse us, ladies.” Alexander gives the other men his most stunning smile. “I'd like a word with Mary, if you don't mind.” He tries to catch Mary's eye, but Mary is absorbed in what appears to be a blancmange. The others exchange glances, but they disperse, some to the bar, others to the dessert table. Alexander takes the seat nearest Mary, who sighs happily, as if this blancmange is the most delicious thing he's ever had in his mouth. _Just you wait, darling,_ Alexander thinks, and angles his body toward the other man.

“I don't believe we've met.” He extends a hand.

“No.” Mary shakes it. “I don't think we have. Are you new here?” 

“New, but not inexperienced.” Alexander winks. Mary returns to his blancmange. “I hear you're known as Mary.”

“That's right. Odd name, I suppose,” he says, although it's no odder than any other. “I wasn't quite prepared to choose a nickname, you see, and that was the first that popped into my mind.” 

“They call me Elizabeth. You know who she was, don't you, Mary?” Alexander answers before Mary can, voice sultry and pitched low. “The most powerful and memorable of queens.” He gazes at Mary meaningfully. 

“I quite agree!” Mary nods happily, innuendo apparently missed. “I was such an admirer of hers. I mean, from what I've read, of course. Although I wouldn't be surprised if history sees Victoria as her equal.” He drains the last sip from his glass of wine. “She's worthy of it, surely, due to her expansion of the Empire alone. I know it raises some dreadful questions, but one simply can't argue with the indelible influence it's going to have on the world for generations to come. I quite think...” 

The string quartet in the corner strikes up a waltz. Alexander grabs it as a lifeline. “Would you care to dance?” 

“Oh, no, thank you. I'm strictly a gavotte man. But I do appreciate the offer.” He licks the last of the meringue from his fork, his tongue twirling around the tines. With anyone else, Alexander would take that as flirtation, but Mary says, “I think I shall make my way home now. Good night, Elizabeth.” Alexander watches him go, staring until he's out the door. 

“I told you,” Teddy says, suddenly at Alexander's elbow. “She can't be had.” 

Alexander doesn't lose. Not on the cricket pitch, not at the card table, not in the bedroom. “Sounds like a challenge to me.” 

The word “challenge” turns out to be an understatement of Brobdingnagian proportions, something like referring to the Great Flood as a “spot of drizzle.” Alexander brings Mary flowers; Mary thanks him for the friendly gesture. Alexander learns, and informs him, that Mary's beloved gavotte bears the same name as an earlier, quite different dance, in which kissing featured heavily; Mary says that's fascinating to know, and he loves to come across new facts. 

“Isn't she lucky to have you so devoted to her that you'd open a book in an attempt to impress?” Teddy asks, more archly than Alexander can comprehend. Teddy has been a member of the club far longer than Alexander. If he wanted a go at Mary himself, he's had plenty of time in which to do so.

At last, growing desperate, Alexander tells Mary, as they dine on a rich chicken dish, just how much he loves _thick, creamy sauces_ and inquires, in a voice that would have him arrested anywhere else, as to whether Mary prefers to have such sauce on the top or on the bottom? Mary replies that both are equally delicious. Finally feeling as though he is getting somewhere, Alexander whispers a plea for him to elaborate. Mary spends the next quarter of an hour listing his favourite meals and the London restaurants in which one might obtain them. 

“It's nonsense,” Alexander says. He's waltzing with Teddy, but his eyes are on Mary, sitting on the sidelines with his usual circle of admirers. “Nobody can resist me.” Nobody ever has.

“Elizabeth.” Teddy sighs. “Alex. Mary's not interested in anyone. But there are, ah, others who care for you. Who care, in fact, a very great deal.” 

“If he's not interested, then why come here?” 

“Companionship? Food? What does it matter?” It matters to Alexander. _If he turned me down_, Alexander thinks, _that's one thing. But it's as if he doesn't even know what I'm asking._ “Would you please look at me?” Teddy sounds suddenly peevish. Alexander glances at him. He's a little shorter. Short enough that Alexander has to look down to meet his eye. Teddy bites his lip, a flush on his cheeks._ It_ is _a little warm in here_, Alexander thinks. “I'm, I'm, I'm not really sure how best to say this." Teddy clears his throat. "So, ah, perhaps I should just come out with it. I lo...”

That's when it strikes Alexander. “I need to find out who he really is.” No wonder he's struggling. He knows nothing about this person. Once he finds out Mary's real name, occupation, station in life, he'll know how to approach him, and his seduction is bound to succeed. 

“That's not allowed. We aren't supposed to contact one another outside the club. It's for everyone's safety. Alex, you absolutely cannot...”

“I can do whatever I like.” He's the Duke of Colchester's heir. Alexander leaves Teddy standing on the dance floor. 

It's barely two days before Alexander's contacts have a name and address for him. Mr. A.Z. Fell, owner of a bookshop in Soho. Evidently a very successful one, if he can afford the club membership fees. 

So it's books Mary loves. Not Alexander's forte. He was a poor student at Eton and an even poorer one at Oxford, one more way in which he has disappointed his father, but he knows Mary—Fell—likes to talk. He just needs to get him onto the subject of dirty books, and that will be that. 

Alexander is so eager to finally succeed, he can barely wait to get to the club. He normally doesn't turn up until later in the evening, but tonight, he's there almost as soon as it opens, at six o'clock. It doesn't occur to him until he arrives that Mary might not be there. He doesn't visit every night. None of them do, apart from a few of the very ambitious rent boys, the ones who are more concerned with their financial futures than their present day exhaustion. Those boys flock around Alexander, as usual, but he brushes them off. He's here for one reason only. 

He waits, and waits. He can, if necessary, be extremely patient and tonight, the patience pays off. At last, the door opens and Mary herself walks in. Alexander grins. He gets up, ready to put his plan into action, and sees a man at Mary's side. 

He's Alexander's height, if not slightly taller. His hair is a striking shade of auburn, and, strangely, he wears dark glasses. Alexander's stomach lurches when he sees the two of them arm-in-arm, but he tells himself it's nothing. This is the Virgin Mary. The man is likely a friend, the way Teddy is a friend to Alexander. 

“Mary!” 

“Hello, Elizabeth!” Mary smiles. “May I introduce Cr...ah...”

“Eve,” the man puts in. Closer up, Alexander can see there's a mark on his temple. Remarkably, it's a tattoo, like something a sailor would have. This man isn't dressed like a sailor. 

“Oh, really, my dear,” Mary tuts at him. “There is such thing as good taste.”

“What? How is Eve in poor taste?” 

Mary shakes her head. “This is Elizabeth. I told you about her.” 

“I remember.” Alexander can't see where Eve's gaze lies, but he has a strong suspicion it's on him.

“I'll get us all a lovely drink." Mary toddles off towards the bar. He's barely out of earshot before Eve says: “Leave him alone.”

Alexander scoffs. “I haven't done anything.” 

“But not for lack of trying, right? I know all about you.” 

Alexander laughs. “I say, that is dreadfully funny to hear." He uses his most condescending tone, hewn on incompetent footmen and lower-ranking peers the length and breadth of England. “Because the Virgin Mary hasn't told me a damned thing about you. Are you her husband, then? Do I have the honour of speaking with Joseph himself?” 

The man gives a smile that could only be described as reptilian. When he speaks, it's low. “Joseph? Nah. I'm fucking _God_. And do you want to know exactly what I know about you?” Eve leans closer, close enough that Alexander can smell his eau de cologne and something else, strange and undefinable. “I know your father hates you, and I know you hate yourself. I know you think men must love you if they're willing to fuck you, but they don't. They think you're fun, for a while, and as soon as you're gone, they forget you were ever there. And I know Teddy is the only one who ever has or ever will really love you, and you'd better get on your fucking knees and worship him, because he's far too good for you and if he ever realizes that, you're fucked.” Slowly, he pushes his glasses down his nose, revealing eyes like nothing Alexander has ever seen before. Otherworldly eyes. Inhuman eyes. “Do you follow me, Alex?” 

Alexander nods. He couldn't have spoken if his life depended on it. 

“Great.” Eve claps him on the shoulder, just as Mary returns. “I knew you and I would understand each other.” 

“What's that?” Mary asks. “What did I miss?”

“Nothing, angel.” Eve holds out his hand for a drink. 

Alexander has to go. He can't be here anymore. He can't, in fact, be here ever again. “Good-bye,” he says.

“But we just...” 

He leaves before he can hear the end of Mary's sentence. 

Teddy's house is eight miles away. Alexander has been there only once, the night they met up again, years after leaving school, and Teddy first told him about the Hundred Guineas Club. Tonight, he offers a cab driver double fare to make it there in record time. The man grumbles about the strain on his horse, but he takes the money, and does the job. 

“Alex?” Teddy raises his eyebrows as he opens the door. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Alexander doesn't reply. Instead, he takes Teddy in his arms and holds on, and on, and on. 

***

Crowley loves the sun. He always has, of course. It's in his nature. The sun in this part of England, near the southern coast and the ancient chalk hills, is weak compared to the Mediterranean, the Middle East, Africa, but it's the warmest Crowley's felt in a while. And, most importantly, it feels like home. He lies, basking in a deck chair, until Aziraphale joins him in the garden. 

He doesn't need to open his eyes to know Aziraphale is fussing. He huffs. He sighs. He coughs. 

“What is it, angel?”

“Oh, I didn't mean to disturb you, darling!” He lies, badly, and sits in the chair beside Crowley's. “It's just...I found myself thinking about the Hundred Guineas club. End of the 19th century. I took you there once. Then we had another quarrel and you went back to bed for another few decades.” There's a hint of judgment in the tone, but whose fault is that? When Aziraphale greeted him so warmly, Crowley had assumed they were letting bygones be bygones. They, apparently, were not. “Do you remember?”

Crowley elects to let that can of worms stay firmly sealed. “Sure I do. Horny rich guys. Women's names. The kissing dance.”

“That's a different type of gavotte, dear. Although, come to think of it, there was occasionally some improvised kissing...”

“Is there anything in particular you want me to remember about it?” 

“It's just...” Aziraphale wrings his hands. “It's stupid, really, but I wondered why nobody ever propositioned me? There was a great deal of that sort of thing going on. And I know many of them stuck with the, ah, the 'paid staff', as it were, but there was quite a bit of _fraternization_ between the members as well.”

“It was a hundred and fifty years ago.” 

“I know!” Aziraphale frowns. “I said it was stupid. And I wouldn't have done anything anyway. It just made me wonder if perhaps I didn't fit in with the humans as well as I thought I did. If they might have seen me as different in some way, even if they couldn't put a finger on it.” 

“You fit in fine, angel.” 

“Why do you say that?” 

Crowley hesitates. “Because,” he says at last, “only a human would have drunk that horrible wine.”

“It wasn't that bad!”

“It was awful. Hundred guineas a year to belong, and they served you paint thinner like that? Old Mr. Inslip was raking it in, all right.” 

“Oh, Crowley.” He sounds so impossibly fond, and he looks so impossibly good, that once again Crowley can't believe how Aziraphale can be so clever and so stupid at the same time. How he doesn't notice how much attention he attracts. Not only from the men of the Hundred Guineas Club—who, in Crowley's not so humble opinion, needed a few lessons on gender and sexuality and a nonjudgmental ear more than they needed cute nicknames and gavotting—but from all genders, in every era. People have always noticed Aziraphale. By some incredible stroke of luck Crowley doesn't deserve but isn't going to question, the only one Aziraphale ever noticed in return was Crowley. Eventually. When the time was right.

“Come on.” Crowley stands and offers a hand to Aziraphale. The low deck chairs were Aziraphale's choice, but he often needs help, either miracle or corporal, to get out of them. “Let's go inside and play aristocrats and rent boys.” 

“Crowley!” 

“Or,” Crowley goes on, gratified by Aziraphale's blush, “you could teach me to gavotte.” 

“We haven't got enough people for that.”

“What about the kissing dance version?” 

Aziraphale casts a glance at him through his eyelashes. _So incredibly fucking lucky_, Crowley repeats to himself. _And don't you forget it._ “I think we could work something out.” 

He takes Crowley's hand and pulls him, in that gentle, angelic, insistent way of his, into their cottage.


End file.
